


Color of Memory

by Lithuen



Series: Hobbit Drabbles [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, just random thoughts, reflections between past and present
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 05:30:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11799429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lithuen/pseuds/Lithuen
Summary: The sight of crimson in the corner of his eye, the glimpse of green grass through a cracked window, the glimmer of gold shimmering in the air. All the colors in a lifetime of memory.





	1. Snow

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this work sitting in my files for nearly two years now, thinking there would be more to it, but as it stands I believe it may be finished for now. I haven't posted anything in nearly as long, so this is a tentative step back into the water so to speak, so I hope you guys like it. If you have been following some of my other work, I do believe I may start posting chapters again, and I apologize for the absence, life has been rather a rollercoaster for a long while.

It was midwinter's eve, and the sky was at its darkest velvet black, stars like diamond dust sprinkled to the horizon. Thorin could see just a glimpse of it from his chair by the roaring hearth, but his focus was on the soothing lilt of his younger sisters voice as she sang her sons to sleep. He reminisced for awhile, of nights spent in mountain halls when his own mother would gather Dis, Frerin and himself, and sing lullabies as ancient as their forebears.

The song came to an end, and was followed by a short clamor and the patter of small feet, a scolding voice trailing after down the hall. Thorin chuckled to himself, getting to his feet and scooping up the pair of escapees with strong arms.

"What are you two doing out of bed, little scoundrels?" he asked with a gentle smile.

"We want to see the snow, uncle!" Fili cried excitedly, his golden hair free of its braids and waving around his shoulders. A dark, tousled head bobbed in agreement at his side, Kili adding voice to their plea.

"Snow unca!"

Thorin exchanged a look with Dis over their shoulders, his fondly amused, hers resigned with a hint of restrained laughter.

"Alright, one last look and then to bed," Thorin announced, setting the boys down and opening the shutters wide. There were gasps of delight for the dazzling tapestry that lay before them. The snow gleamed in the moonlight, untouched and pure. Soon the boys were back in bed, their thick yawns interrupted by the hoot of a lone owl.

"Will you tell us a story uncle?" the both asked sleepily.

Thorin pretended to deliberate until the two were wiggling in anticipation. He held up a finger for silence just as they were about to protest the delay. "Alright," he sighed, grinning and tucking them in more securely. "Many years ago, deep in the halls of Erebor, your mother and I were looking out over the balcony, and this is what we saw..."

* * *

  
Years passed since the childlike innocence of watching the winter snow. Time went by, children grew, and the beauty of snow turned to a growing fear of creeping ice. A winter came that was unlike the others before it, hooking chill claws deep into the land. Rivers froze solid, houses and lanes were rimmed with deceptive beauty, and to be caught outside meant to court death. The land grew silent, and the starving wolves crept in. Thorin went out alone to hunt them, to keep his growing nephews and sister safe. Each day he brought back new tales, and food for empty bellies. Furs were made into blankets and cloaks. Teeth and claws were divided between eager young boys attempting to replicate the feats of their hero. Sometimes there was a visitor to break the monotony of endless dark and cold. Those inside sat huddled around the flickering hearth, warm drinks in hand and songs to block out the screaming wind. Outside the snow fell on...


	2. Embers

The clanging of hammers rang tenfold through the cavernous halls surrounding the great forge. It was a constant noise, one that Thorin had grown up with. Comforting and strong, it was like the heart beat of the mountain.

Now for the first time Thorin was going to see it for himself. He trailed closely behind his father, looking eagerly about to see as much as he could. Carts full of fuel rattled past overhead, taking their burdens to special troughs that would dump loads straight into the ever blazing furnaces. Above the flames were giant vats of liquid metal, the soaring temperature keeping the contents bubbling steadily. 

All around them were dwarves working at any number of tasks. Bellows were pumped, sending up showers of sparks. Water wheels turned to power the pulleys that drew the carts along their rails. Levers were twisted this way and that to funnel some of the gold and silver into intricately carved molds. They were surrounded now by the bright light, blazing heat, the sharp tang of molten steel, and a cacophony of sounds. Everything from the soft clink of coins, the gentle twinkling of gems, to the great hammers ringing out. All this together made the forges, but behind it all was the warm presence of fire.

* * *

  
The day the mountain fell was seared as deeply into Thorin's memory as a brand. He could remember every facet, every minute detail. It began with a roaring wind, as hot as the forges. Hotter still, and pine trees came rushing past in the tempest. Next he watched helplessly as Dale crumbled. He could hear the distant screams, the twang of bows firing arrows fruitlessly at the impenetrable beast. Towers collapsed, cutting off all escape for Erebor's closest allies. If only the dragon had stopped there, but its lust for wealth could not be satisfied by the paltry offerings of men. It turned on the mountain, intent on getting to the treasure within. Solid gates folded under its blows, hardened warriors were tossed aside like chaff at a reaping. Fell cries echoed in the halls, and all was drenched in the consuming red of fire.


	3. Raven

Thorin was only seven years old when King Thror, his revered grandfather, took him to see Ravenhill. The northern lookout post was important for many reasons, but one of the most notable were the eiries that the ravens kept on their stone outcroppings. These extraordinary birds had the uncanny ability to share speech with the dwarves of the mountain. As such, they were cared for ardently in exchange for their courier services.

Any dwarf might seek the aid of the less experienced birds, but the royal family was privileged to be set up each with their own personal avian companion. Now it was Thorin's turn to choose, or be chosen, if one of the birds took a fancy to him. He wondered what his would be like. Would it be sharp-eyed and soft spoken like his mother's? Or perhaps full of sarcastic witticisms like his father's? Or maybe venerable and wise like grandfather's?

As he thought about what he might prefer, they arrived at the perches. Instinctively, Thror held up his arm as the largest of the birds arrived to accept the nuts he offered.

"How go things, Carc?" the King asked amiably.

"Quiet today my friend," the bird replied, before quirking its head to the side to eye Thorin curiously. "Who might this fledgling be?" it chattered.

Thorin turned to his grandfather for guidance, and after a subtle wink and a nudge he straightened his shoulders and replied. "I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror," he proclaimed proudly. "I am honored to meet you Sir Carc," he added after he had taken a breath.

"Good manners, young fledgling," Carc chuckled. "Nice to see the prince up here at last. Perhaps you would like to meet my grand chick." Carc gave a shrill whistle, and a flutter of wings followed in swift response, such that Thorin almost didn't have his arm up in time to heft his inquisitive new friend. "This is Mirik," Carc said by way of introduction.

The two eyed each other cautiously, after which Thorin offered up the nuts he had gathered that morning, only slightly crumbled from a journey in his pocket. Mirik chirped his approval, Thorin grinned in return, and their friendship was cemented.

* * *

  
It would be nearly two centuries before Thorin made the trek up to Ravenhill once more. The walls were crumbled or missing, and only a few fraying nests remained. Thorin stood alone, surveying the wreckage of a newly destroyed Esgaroth, the town still smoldering even after the dragon had been slain. The wind whistled mournfully about him, and Thorin felt a deep sense of detachment, standing there with memories long past fluttering through his head. Even so, he still had the presence of mind to hold up his arm at the first sound of wings flapping. Mirik settled into his usual spot as if there had been no years lost. 

"Welcome back my old friend," the bird cawed.

"Would that it had been under better circumstances," Thorin sighed tiredly, stroking Mirik's shining plumage. Both turned away from the dismal scene, Mirik taking a perch on Thorin's shoulder. Behind them, ash filled the sky with smoky sorrow...


	4. Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hinted bagginshield if you squint, or not, can really be read either way as it's not the focus of this story. I leave it up to you my readers.

They had escaped from goblins, run from flames, and flown out of the terrible grasp of wargs and their orcish riders. Now they faced their latest challenge, the giant bear-man. Beorn had been hostile at first, but upon hearing of their exploits, their hosts temper improved vastly.

For the first time since the start of their journey the company felt able to truly relax. Many of the dwarves were napping, or sparring, or caring for what little gear they had left. Thorin watched them absentmindedly, but his eyes wandered, looking for the smallest member of the group. Unarguably the most interesting member, he noted with considerable chagrin. He had not intended to open his heart to the unassuming hobbit, but Bilbo had crept in with his steady smiles and quiet care.

The object of his attention diverted his thoughts, as Bilbo came traipsing around the corner, flowers in his hair and clothes liberally smeared in dirt, as if he had rolled in it. Thorin blinked in surprise, trying to reconcile his memory of the normally fussy hobbit and this new woodland sprite.  
\---  
When the company arrived at the slopes of Erebor, Bilbo was right by Thorin's side. Together they stared out across the desolation caused by the dragon. Where once there were leagues of strong and sturdy trees, all was now cracked brown dirt. Dusty and soot streaked, the land had a haunted feeling to it that would take years to banish. Later, that same ground turned into a churned up mess of mud, blood, and ash. Bodies covered the land, and somewhere in the thick of the carnage was a weeping hobbit, kneeling at the side of a mortally wounded king. Neither noticed the screaming masses, or the stormy sky, or the brown blood soaked dirt. They were an impenetrable bubble surrounded by bleak mud and sorrow.


	5. Cerulean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I guess this one is a bit more blatantly bagginshield (can't help it really, I ship it *grins sheepishly*) still, you can view it as a friendship if that is more your taste.

Blue was a hugely significant color in Thorin's life. In the grand halls of Erebor it was in the raiment of the young prince, adorned with shining mithril and offset by deep black patterns. It was in the sapphires mined in the far depths, their faceted surfaces glowing with azure fire. It was in the icy lake seen from the ramparts, as its crystalline surface reflected perfectly the endless sky. 

It was in the Shire also. In the forget-me-nots planted outside a hobbits painted green door. In a cravat hastily fastened before that same hobbit went charging after a company of dwarves on an adventure. And it was the color of Bilbo's eyes, shimmering deep as they gazed into Thorin's lighter ones, both warmed in the realization of new feelings atop a spire bathed in evening light.

* * *

  
Blue was just as significant on the long journey to a long lost home. It was in the rain that fell through hours of trekking in the wilds. It was in the eerie phosphorescence that was their only light as they fled through the goblin tunnels. It was a color once pure, turned evil in the eyes of their enemy. It was in the mocking eyes of a captor, as they were locked away from the open sky. It was in the tears of a hobbit as the eyes he held so dear stared sightless at the gathering clouds.


	6. Pine

The hunting party paused, tensing in anticipation as the young prince lined up his first shot. Thorin was ten, and another rite of passage was almost within his grasp. As his best friend and guard in training, Dwalin was also undergoing the same test of a new skill. They stared along the sight of the bow, examining the small group of wild boar with anxious eyes. Behind them, the more experienced members of the group looked on in quiet high humor. They exchanged grins, having already placed their bets on the outcome of this first excursion.

Breathing in deeply, Thorin took his shot. There was a moment of silence in which he was uncertain whether he had hit his mark, then a piercing squeal from his injured and outraged target. The boar charged off, an arrow embedded in its flank. A small cry of disappointed frustration left Thorin's lips before a large hand squeezed comfortingly at his shoulder.

"It was a good shot lad!" his father praised. "We have time, we'll catch up to it."

Thorin nodded, gratified that there were no chuckles at his expense. The group moved on, surrounded by the dense green of tall fir trees.

* * *

  
Now Thorin was an experienced hunter, and the skills he had learned he taught to his young nephews. They were not yet at the age they should have been to learn this, but necessity had bred an urgency they could not ignore. Fili was nine. Kili was only four. A week before this their settlement had been attacked by roving goblins, a night raid, and two small children had lost their lives. Now Thorin raced to show his nephews how to protect themselves, in the worry that he would not be able to. Fili displayed the quiet confidence of someone older than his few years, and Kili was showing enormous promise, even armed only with a sling and a pouch of stones. They practiced with determination, soaking up each lesson as they crept through green ferns, the colors of autumn overhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for this fic at present, though I am leaving it open for more in case the mood strikes. I hope you enjoyed my little thought bubble.


End file.
